A Sick World

I remember the last time I was sick.

I realized it when I was on an elliptical. I had been trying to exercise every day, increasing my time on the elliptical to the max of an hour nonstop. The elliptical was placed in a room with a large TV since only my grandparents used the room to watch TV, and my sister and I and our friends would sometimes use the TV and computers there to play games or watch movies. In other terms, it was a room barely used, and since the elliptical was also barely used, it seemed fitting to put it there – out of sight, out of mind.

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Write.

I feel like I can write for an eternity. the feeling of writing with pencil, pen, marker – anything – on paper is something I feel I can do for the rest of my life.

I want to have an endless notebook, a notebook that never runs out of pages.

To write, for me, is life. To hear the sound of writing. To see my own handwriting. To see the words in my mind on plain paper.

To see a world on pages.

I live in my own world, I know. But to live in that world is a magic only I can do.

By writing.